


Accustom

by corrupted_quiet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Foot Fetish, M/M, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:26:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrupted_quiet/pseuds/corrupted_quiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angels have a few different rituals than humans do these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accustom

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for aufgehen

The human ritual of courting has long mystified angels, or at least left Castiel in a shroud of curiosity. Evolution ran its course, ran it well as the bones of Australopithecus morphed and changed, soon splitting off into the various species of Homo, the Homo sapiens then developing agriculture, civilisation, theology, technology, and so on. Their rites, their beliefs, they all differed in an exceedingly diverse way, something that made them all so, so human. But as time went on, the grains of sand falling to the bottom of the hourglass, traditional ways faded, worn out and replaced by other more handy means.

Romance, outside the initial attraction of Adam and Eve, remained foreign to angels, and while they observed all methods—from the arrangements made by parents requesting a dowry to the encounters influenced by alcohol resulting in brief, isolated incidents of temporary pleasure followed by a hangover—and while one can see things and, on a vapid level, understand; the deeper comprehension may very well elude even the smartest.

It’s not that Castiel doesn’t understand how romance works—he might not be as versed as some of his brothers but he’s certainly not blind to the concept—he’s naive in several respects but certainly not _stupid_. However, still, some things to him are a bit... odd.

Odd in the good sense, but old habits die hard for an angel schooled so strictly with the Bible and a bit of a cultural awakening nipping at his views. There are just some customs that, while they were revered in the days of Christ, holding the most significant and deep of meanings in their gesture, are outright weird in modern times. He expected this, yes, but a part of a relationship, as Castiel knows, is supposed to be a mutual understanding. Thus, in Castiel understanding the workings of Dean’s human society, he needs to learn a few of the more angelic sacraments that, in these days, are dead.

Castiel’s hands, rough pads with a delicate touch, rub over Dean’s toes, carefully dipping them into the cool tub of tap water. It’s nothing fancy, not fresh water from Niagara Falls or fetched from a cove nestled far below the earth, just a nice amount from the sink that’s just enough for washing.

Dean rolls his head back, letting out loud, wispy sigh as Castiel cradles his submerged heel, thumb rubbing from ankle to sole, ankle to sole, ankle to sole. The sensations ripple through him, ripple like the water, the cleansing more than just cosmetic, more than just skin-deep.

“This is still weird,” Dean says, his olive eyes shifting gradually from a mouldy spot on the motel ceiling to the crouching angel on the ground.

He always notices how Castiel never sits, at least not the way people do. No, he sort of _perches_ , his shoulders hunching over as he keeps his forearms tight at his side, leaving room for those invisible wings to spread without fear.

Castiel hums, too concentrated on using his pinkie to scrub between Dean’s toes, his vivid eyes locked and focused, face ironed with seriousness, pressed fine and neat as a Sunday suit. And yet, there’s still that serenity in his eyes, so calm and even, like a temperate spring in the middle of the fall, edges lightly frosted, but still welcoming, still inviting and refreshing.

Dean rolls his eyes. Right, no small talk, just _pedicures_. It’s a good thing he sent Sam out for some food (and, hopefully, he doesn’t bring back a basket of rabbit chow like he did in Louisiana, home of the goddamn best jambalaya and gumbo known to American), or he’d be just cackling over this little ceremonial _whatever_.

“So this is what they did in Bethlehem?” Dean muses, wiggling his toes in the water, making a few little _splishes_ and _splashes_. He grins a little, seeing Castiel’s head turning up, gaze shifting to bore into Dean’s eyes with that soul-searching stare only he can pull off. It used to annoy him, irk him how intense and invasive the look was, always making him uncomfortable, a siege on his personal space even when he remained a good distance away. But nowadays, he likes it, likes the stare, likes how Castiel _looks_ at _him_.

Castiel stays silent, his hands motionless, letting the water settle. Then, so his chapped lips barely move, he mutters, “It’s a gesture of affection. Christ did it.”

Christ, well isn’t that the answer to everything?

“I thought he was a carpenter,” Dean says, Castiel resuming his work, “Not a spa specialist.”

“The Greeks used to clean the feet of travellers,” Castiel mentions, “As a way to welcome weary guests.”

“Hey, I read the Homer, I know how it goes,” Dean swears that, just for a moment, he sees Castiel’s lips twitch, flashing a teasing grin, but ignores it. He flicks his foot, one quick glide of the ankle kicking up a wave that spills from the bucket’s brim, soaking Castiel’s knees, his shoes, and parts of his coat.

Castiel peers up at Dean again, eyes narrowing, knowing well that Dean did that on purpose.

But Dean, in the spirit of playfulness, smiles innocently, “ _Oops_.”

The smirk lasts when Castiel looks down at Dean’s feet again, only to snap into a laughing gasp, fingers tickling his foot. The water sloshes, dark stains bleeding on the dark red floor, ones that will evaporate and disappear before the next dawn.

“ _Hey_!”

“Shh...” Castiel raises one of Dean’s feet, using both his hands, cupping the foot like a fragile egg. The grace of his motion, how fluid and sincere it is, hushes Dean even without the breezy shush. The room falls into eerie silence, eerie silence as Castiel brings the tips of Dean’s toes to his lips, breathing softly on them with parted lips.

Enochian, that’s what Dean hears, Enochian set to a tune, a rhythm, strange words strung together to make for a beatific hymn in an alien tongue. The words float in the air, any breaks filled with the softest smacks, Castiel kissing each of Dean’s toes, one by one, a little blessing in their own right.

The chanting goes on, as does the kissing, each one tied to the end of a verse, end of a line, as an emphasis, an emphasis of emotion, an emphasis of passion.

And all Dean can really think is _God this is weird_. But hey, he wouldn’t have it any other way. 


End file.
